


Blue Planet

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Bathtubs, Crack, Drabble Collection, Fish, Fish out of Water, I Don't Even Know, Love, M/M, Tumblr, tunalock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I am a piscine consulting detective. The only one in the world.” John's flatmate flopped majestically, for emphasis.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Planet

**Author's Note:**

> There's no excessively zoological funny business in here, okay? I just really enjoyed [this gifset](http://teabeforewar.tumblr.com/post/47607391427/tunalock-and-emotions).

_"Out to sea, the dolphin have found prey. They are driving a small shoal of mackerel up towards the surface..."_

There was no soporific on earth like the voice of Sir David Attenborough at four in the morning.

_"...but another squadron of predators has arrived."_

John blinked at the blurry blue and silver shapes that flashed across the television screen. He ought to rouse himself and head upstairs. He would have, hours ago, if the debriefing hasn't lasted so damn long. If he had braved the stairs, instead of collapsing on the couch.

_"These are giants, two meters long, heading directly for the bait ball..."_

A smacking crash jolted him out of his doze, and John jumped instinctively to his feet, shouting-- "Sherlock?"

"John."

The reply came-- or rather, gurgled-- from the downstairs bathroom. John was at the door and forcing the handle with no further ado.

"What broke this ti--"

John found his line of inquiry decidedly, irretrievably interrupted by the scene which fate had spread before him.

"John," said the fish.

Dr. John H. Watson, MD, scrunched his eyes closed, very tightly. Then, for good measure, he covered them with both hands. He blinked.

"John," the fish gasped, sounding impatient, "I am talking to you."

Bracing a hand on either side of the doorframe, John took several steadying breaths.

"Sh-sherlock?" he managed.

"Obviously," the fish spat, punctuating the word with an especially violent flop.

John was not accustomed to this kind of superciliousness from a marine organism, and felt vaguely ill. But nausea was quickly replaced by panic.

"What-- what do you need? Water-- don't you-- shouldn't I-- where--"

"The bathtub, John."

"Right. Of course-- but isn't that--"

"Stop," a flop, "asking," a flip, "stupid," a thrash, "questions."

John made a strangled sound that meant “Of course, that sounds sensible”, and managed to edge around his wriggling flatmate to fumble with the taps. Once the water was halfway up the sides of the tub, and before he could be derided for asking another question-- like “What now?” or “Why is this happening to me?”-- his ichthyoid companion, in a truly breathtaking acrobatic maneuver, launched himself into the air and landed in the tub, belly-first.

"Now," said Sherlock-the-fish, raising his triangular head out of the water and resting what John could only surmise was a chin on the edge of the tub. "We can speak more comfortably. What's the matter?"

"You," John cleared his throat. "Are a fish."

“Thunnus thynnus.”

“What?”

The fish gestured irritably with two fins. “Really, John, you’re a doctor. It isn’t like you to use such disrespectful language.”

John, who at this point was crouching on the tiled floor waiting to be gathered into the sweet folds of unconsciousness, or shock, or anything but continued casual conversation with his scaly erstwhile flatmate-- could only nod. The fish frowned. John could not have explained to you how it frowned, as its lips were not particularly conducive to displays of emotion, but frown it did.

“I am an Atlantic bluefin tuna, John.”

“Okay.”

“I am a piscine consulting detective. The only one in the world.” Tunalock flopped majestically, for emphasis.

“Okay.”

Their exchange continued in much the same vein, until John Watson was forced to acknowledge that he was not going to faint or wake up or switch to a different, less confusing life like changing the channel on the telly.

“Bring me my phone.”

John looked at the tuna, and the tub, and the water it was filled with.

“Lestrade might have left me a message.”

“Lestrade,” John repeated. Then, very slowly, “Is-- is Lestrade a fish, too?”

Tunalock made a sound of contempt. “Don’t be an idiot, John.”

John did his best to comply-- only detouring to stare morosely into the streets of London for a few moments and reflect on his life and its unforeseeable hardships. He returned with the phone and placed it on the rim of the tub, which was still very much filled with piscine consulting detective.

Tunalock took the phone in one fin with improbable dexterity and held it up to what John, even with his limited knowledge of marine biology, suspected was definitely not an ear.

“Hello? Yes. We’re on our way.”

A split second later John found his jumper half soaked and his arms full of bossy Atlantic bluefin tuna.

“Let’s go, John,” the tuna urged.

At Tunalock’s request, John paused at the door to fasten the familiar blue scarf around its-- around it. Something about the scarf made John feel better about the whole ordeal. He’d really been making such a fuss about nothing. No one else seemed to notice the fish, after all-- at least, no more than people usually noticed Sherlock.

If there was a great deal more flopping at the crime scene than John could recall from past adventures, that was only because his observational skills were lacking.

At one point, Tunalock slapped Anderson in the face with his tail. John laughed.

They caught the culprit after a dizzying chase across the London rooftops. The murderer had been utterly unprepared for fifty kilos of silvery scaled detective to come sailing through the air to collide with his skull.

“I told you it would work,” Tunalock crowed, smirking (somehow).

“You’re just lucky I have good aim,” John chuckled.

Yes, all was right with the world. John Watson, doctor and blogger, and Tunalock, the fish detective.

“Let’s get married, John,” Tunalock said, one day, reclining on his shiny belly on the couch.

“That is a fantastic idea,” John said, smiling fondly. He knelt down, leaning close and reaching for--

_____

 

John woke halfway through falling off of the couch, and sat up so fast he nearly cracked his head against his flatmate’s. His flatmate, who was standing in pyjamas and dressing gown and leaning over him. His very human flatmate, homo sapiens sapiens, who had always been human, or at least theoretically human, and who--

John’s voice was incredibly calm and quiet and restrained-- the voice one would use to address a shy child, or the victim of impending retribution. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock shuffled a back a few steps.

“What the hell did you put in my tea?”


End file.
